that." His eyes narrowed. "I am still thinking about you, Armand."
Armand looked down at his empty cup.
"I'll stay," Sour Billy announced.
"Ah," said Damon Julian. "Of course. Why, Billy, what would we do without you?" Sour Billy Tipton didn't much like the smile Julian wore then, but there wasn't nothing to be done about it.
A short time later, they set off to the place Billy had promised to show them. The house was outside the Vieux Carre, in the American section of New Orleans, but within walking distance. Damon Julian went in front, walking through the narrow gaslit streets arm in arm with Cynthia, wearing a private ghost of a smile as he regarded the iron balconies, the gates opening on courtyards with their flambeaux and their fountains, the gas lamps atop iron poles. Sour Billy directed them. Soon they were in a darker, rawer part of town, where the buildings were wood or crumbling tabby-brick, made of ground oyster shells and sand. Even the gas lines had not extended this far, though the city had had its gas works for more than twenty years. At the corners, oil lamps swung from heavy iron chains hung diagonally across the streets and supported by great hooks driven into the sides of buildings. They burned with a sensual smoky light. Julian and Cynthia passed from pools of light into shadow, back into light, then again into shadow. Sour Billy and the others followed.
A party of three men stepped out from an alley and crossed their path. Julian ignored them, but one of the men glimpsed Sour Billy as he passed beneath a light, "you!" he said.
Sour Billy turned his stare on them, saying nothing. They were young Creoles, half-drunk and therefore dangerous.
"I know you, monsieur," the man said. He stepped up to Sour Billy, his dark face flush with drink and anger. "Have you forgotten me? I was with Georges Monrreuil the day you affronted him in the French Exchange."
Sour Billy recognized him. "Well, well," he said.
"Monsieur Montreuil vanished one June night, after an evening of gaming at the St. Louis," the man said stiffly.
"I'm real grieved," Sour Billy said. "I guess he must of won too much, and got robbed for his trouble."
"He lost, monsieur. He had been losing steadily for some weeks. He had nothing worth stealing. No, I do not think it was robbery. I think it was you, Mister Tipton. He had been asking about you. He meant to deal with you like the trash you are. You are no gentleman, monsieur, or I would call you out. If you dare show your face in the Vieux Carre again, however, you have my word that I shall whip you through the streets like a nigger. Do you hear me?"
"I hear," said Sour Billy. He spat on the man's boot.
The Creole swore and his face paled with rage. He took a step forward and reached out for Sour Billy, but Damon Julian stepped between them, and stopped the man with a hand against his chest. "Monsieur," Julian said, in a voice like wine and honey. The man halted, confused. "I can assure you that Mister Tipton did no harm to your friend, sir."
"Who are you?" Even half-drunk, the Creole clearly recognized that Julian was a different sort of person than Sour Billy; his fine clothes, cool features, cultured voice, all marked him a gentleman. Julian's eyes glittered dangerously in the lamplight.
"I am Mister Tipton's employer," Julian said. "May we discuss this affair somewhere other than the public street? I know a place further on where we can sit beneath the moon and sip drinks while we talk. Will you let me buy your friends and you a refreshment?"
One of the other Creoles stepped up beside his friend. "Let us hear him out, Richard."
Grudgingly, the man consented. "Billy," Damon Julian said, "do show us the way." Sour Billy Tipton suppressed a smile, nodded, and led them off. A block away they turned into an alley, and followed it back into a dark court. Sour Billy sat down on the edge of a scum-covered pool. The water soaked through the seat of his pants, but he didn't care.
"What is this place?" demanded Montreuil's friend. "This is no tavern!"
"Well," said Sour Billy Tipton. "Well. I must have turned wrong." The other Creoles had entered the court, followed by the rest of Julian's party. Kurt and Cynthia stood by the mouth of the alley. Armand moved closer to the fountain.
"I do not like this,"